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When I turned back to the training floor, I found Marigold watching me. Scout chittered something that made her bite her lower lip in concern. The simple genuineness of her worry made my chest ache.

“Mr. Raynoff?” Rivera called again.

“Coming.” I tore my gaze from Marigold.

Ember settled on my shoulder with a restless flutter, feathers ruffling like he could still feel the rot bleeding off Keane’s portal. My fingers curled into fists.

Something was wrong with the magic here. Deeply wrong. And Keane wasn’t saying a damn word about it.

I followed Rivera back toward the dueling floor, the heat of Ember’s wings warm against my throat.

And for once, it wasn’t enough to keep the cold off my spine.

41

Marigold

The library waseerily silent, the warm scent of old parchment and books doing nothing to ease the tension crawling up my spine. The shadows flickered strangely along the towering bookshelves, bending unnaturally around the portal pulsing at the far end of the room. And in front of it—Keane.

He stood rigid, his posture unnaturally stiff, like a marionette held by invisible strings. The flickering candlelight barely touched him, swallowed by the darkness curling around his feet. But what made my stomach twist wasn’t the portal or the corrupted magic—it was the book clutched in his hands.

My father’s diary.

“Keane?” My voice cracked, my breath shallow. This is a nightmare. This isn’t real.

But it was.

The portal behind him shimmered, the darkness at its edges wrong, pulsing like something alive. Shadowy tendrils licked outward, hungrily curling around his ankles. His eyes, those deep stormy blue I knew so well, were voids of blackness now.

“You don’t have to do this.” My breath was unsteady as I edged closer, each step a plea. “This isn’t you. I know you, Keane. We meant something to each other. Were all your words—just empty promises?”

Something flickered in his expression, so brief I almost missed it. The slightest tension in his jaw. The faintest twitch of his fingers on the diary’s worn cover. For one heartbeat, he was mine again.

Then it was gone.

“Step back, Marigold.” His voice was hollow, distant. Not his.

“Not without you.” The words ripped from me, desperate, aching. I surged forward, reaching for him, grabbing his wrist before he could step into the portal. “You’re stronger than this! Fight him! Fight whatever he’s done to you!”

“Keane, please,” I begged, gripping his sleeve, my fingers digging into the fabric. His magic surged against mine, a flicker of silver breaking through the darkness for a single heartbeat—pure, untainted—before the corruption swallowed it whole. His breath hitched, his fingers tightening on the diary like he was fighting something unseen.

I lunged for it, desperate to stop him, and in the struggle, the delicate pages tore. Loose fragments fluttered to the floor, scattered between us like the last remnants of something broken beyond repair.

Keane froze.

For just a second, his magic faltered. Silver fought against the blackness bleeding from his portals, like a single star trying to hold back the void. His chest rose sharply, a shuddering breath forcing its way through clenched teeth.

“Keane, please,” I begged, gripping his sleeve, my fingers digging into the fabric. “I know you’re still in there. Come back to me.”

His head tilted down—just enough that our foreheads nearly touched. His fingers twitched, hesitating, like he wanted to hold on to me.

“Keane…” I whispered, my heart breaking with every breath. Please.

His jaw clenched. The moment slipped away.

But just before it did—just before the darkness swallowed him whole—his lips parted, barely moving. “Find the Last Witness.”

The words were so faint, I almost thought I imagined them. But then his magic surged—dark and unrelenting.